


Mysterious Stranger

by LightInTheVoid



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Baze is a good cook, First Meet, M/M, beautiful stranger, he just hates his job, some background TFA trio too, some other background ships as well, wildly inaccurate depictions of hospitality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 10:01:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10534173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightInTheVoid/pseuds/LightInTheVoid
Summary: It's business as usual at Empire Eats, where Baze is head chef and hates every second of it. The only redeeming features are his co-workers… and perhaps the blind guy that’s just walked in the door...?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moreissuesthanvogue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moreissuesthanvogue/gifts).



> Hi all! This is the fic I wrote for the i don't need luck i have the 2017 spiritassassin fic exchange, based on the following prompt:
> 
> _“my best friend owns a restaurant and you wrote a bad review of it in the local paper so it has become my goal to track you down and fight you” AU_
> 
> It's, uh, only very loosely based on the prompt because of the way the idea evolved haha It's set just before the events of the prompt because I had a longer fic planned but unfortunately no time to finish it, so I changed the first chapter into a standalone. Hence, this fic! I hope you enjoy it!! I had a fun time writing it.
> 
> Thanks also to the friends who beta-read it for me; any mistakes that remain are mine alone.

From the moment Baze opens his eyes to the darkness of a too-early morning, he has a sinking feeling that today is really not going to be a good day. 

He’s right. 

“ _Sorry, Boss, neither of us are feeling well today; Poe threw up barely twenty minutes ago_ .” Despite his croaky voice, Finn manages to sound extremely apologetic. In the background, Baze hears Poe call out something and the sound becomes muffled as Finn turns away from the receiver to answer him. 

“It’s fine, we’ll manage,” Baze tells him, rubbing at his temples. “Somehow.” Across the small restaurant kitchen, Bodhi looks up from his breakfast of dumplings with an inquiring look. Baze waves a hand at him – _in a minute_ – and turns his back on his co-worker. “Look, the two of you just stay home and focus on getting better, alright? Bodhi can take over for Poe, and Rey can split your duties with Jyn.” 

Poe calls out again and Finn laughs, though it quickly becomes a cough. “ _Poe says Rook had better not mess with his spice index_ ,” he relays once the coughing has subsided. 

Baze snorts. “What spice index?” 

There’s another laugh-cough. “ _We should really look into hiring more people, Boss_ ,” Finn says after a moment. 

“Tell that to Krennic and his budget,” Baze grumbles. The manager of Empire Eats was about as useful as a paperweight when it came to the part of his job that actually _mattered_. Penny-pinching and micro-managing in the worst way, Krennic didn’t seem to care how his staff actually fared, only that they did things _his_ way. Baze often finds himself wondering if the man has ever deigned to set foot in a kitchen and actually cook any of the crap he dictates. 

“ _Speaking of Krennic, remember that we’ve got that health inspector coming by today for the quarterly review_ .” 

Baze curses. “I forgot about that! Don’t you dare even think about coming in, then!” 

“ _Are you sure you’re gonna be alright then, Boss? We’re real sorry we had to get sick today of all days._ ” 

“Like I said,” Baze sighs. “We’ll manage somehow. Get well soon, you two.” 

“ _Will do, Boss!_ ” 

Baze puts the phone down with a sigh. Crossing to a linen cupboard, he snags another apron like his own and tosses it at Bodhi, who drops a dumpling in order to catch it. “Congratulations, you’re promoted.” 

“What?” 

“Who’s promoted?” Jyn asks, walking through the kitchen door, messenger bag slung over her shoulder and a tray of coffee cups in one hand. 

“Bodhi. And you’re late,” he replies, accepting the cup she hands him. “Thanks. Poe and Finn are sick, they won’t be in today. Bodhi, you’re taking Poe’s job today. He’s gonna fight you if you mess up his spice rack, apparently.” He’s pleased to find that his coffee cup actually holds tea instead. Jasmine, by the smell of it. He replaces the lid and raises his cup in thanks at his younger co-worker, tardiness forgiven. 

“We have spices in this place?” Bodhi mutters, slipping the apron over his head. “That’s news.” Jyn passes him another coffee cup, which he accepts gratefully. 

“Sorry I’m late,” she adds, dumping her messenger bag in a corner. “Cassian was gonna drive me but he was having car trouble. I brought coffee, though.” She claims her own coffee and then eyes the last one remaining. “I brought one for Poe too, but if he’s off sick...” 

“I’ll take it,” Bodhi volunteers immediately, stretching out a hand. “I’m gonna need it if I’m working Poe’s job as well today.” 

Jyn rolls her eyes, but hands the cup over without protest. “You’ll need it,” she agrees. 

Ignoring the exchange, Baze presses a plastic container filled with dumplings into Jyn’s hands. “Here, little sister. For breakfast, or for later. I made too many.” 

She takes the container and stares at it for a moment, before her dark eyes flit up to meet his own. There’s a gleam of worry in them, the same gleam that had been in Bodhi’s eyes when Baze had pressed a container onto the younger man earlier. His co-workers have long since figured out that if Baze offers them food in the mornings, it probably means he’s barely slept. There are times when it’s a curse how perceptive they all are. 

“Will you be alright today, with Poe and Finn off?” she asks finally. “I can help back here too if you need it.” 

He gives her a crooked smile. “Like I said, we’ll manage.” He puts a confidence he doesn’t feel into the words. It’s still hours until opening time, but he’s already exhausted from lack of sleep. And while Bodhi knows how to cook – knows how to cook better than the crap their manager insists on being on the menu – he’s yet to master the speed or efficiency that Poe has as Empire Eats’ secondary chef. He squeezes her shoulder in silent thanks and drops his hand. “You need to move your bag, though. Put it in the lockers. Health inspector today.” 

Both Jyn and Bodhi groan. “I forgot about that,” Bodhi says glumly. “Guess that means _he’ll_ be swanning around as well.” 

“Unfortunately,” Baze says. “Jyn, you tend the register when they come. We don’t need you and Krennic clawing at each other the whole while. Blood is bad for the inspection.” 

Jyn laughs, losing the steeliness to her expression that comes up whenever their manager is mentioned. “I’ll remember that,” she says, catching the cleaning rag that Baze tosses her with a motion to wipe down the tables in the restaurant proper. She disappears back through the kitchen doors. 

“I’m gonna need more coffee,” Bodhi mutters somewhere behind him. 

+++ 

Thanks to lost time from the inspection, they’re now severely behind on the lunch rush. Baze sighs as he surveys the orders papering the counter, rubbing at his temple. He can feel a headache coming on. Snatching a few of the easier orders, he thrusts them at Bodhi. "You remember how to make the pasta dishes right?" 

"Yeah," Bodhi says, taking the slips of paper like he's worried they – or Baze – will bite him. "Didn't we get a new recipe for one of them from the almighty manager?" 

"Ignore it," Baze advises, already turning away to tear down his own tickets. "I looked at it and it's shit." 

"Not like any of the other stuff on the menu he gives us is better," Bodhi mutters, starting to cut up ingredients for the sauce. "Is Poe's illegal spice rack still around?" 

"Hid it in my locker," Baze says. Bodhi disappears through a side door for a moment. 

"Party of four just came in," Jyn announces as she pushes through the door. "Two noodles of doom, a mudpie and a potmix.” 

"Bodhi's taking care of the doom, give me the other two," Baze demands, holding out a hand for the tickets. Bodhi returns from the storage closet bearing a rather forlorn rack of spices, identical to any found in a regular kitchen. 

"Never thought I'd ever think of coriander as 'illegal spice'" he mutters. Baze barks a laugh, grabbing a knife from the block. 

As always, the steady rhythm of cooking – chop this, roll that, stir the pot – soothes the rough edges of his mind. The tiredness in his limbs from his early morning eases away and even his irritation at Krennic settles to a distant simmer – never gone, but at least barely an afterthought against his focus on making each dish. Unfortunately, it’s hard to take pride in his work when he knows that the food they make – the food that Krennic _demands_ they make, down to the recipe itself – basically amounts to cardboard, in his professional opinion. Baze would actually rather eat cardboard. For some reason he can’t understand, people still come to eat at their restaurant. While it’s a good thing in that it keeps him in a job, he can’t help but be concerned for the apparent decline in Jedha’s ability to appreciate good food. It’s not like the restaurant is cheap, either. Maybe that’s the problem; everyone just assumes that expensive food means good food. Either way, it depresses him. 

He keeps an eye on Bodhi as he works. Lunch rush it may be, but Baze doesn’t want the kid’s stress levels reaching so high they kick off his anxiety. Bodhi isn’t as fast as Poe at completing orders, but he’s steadily making his way through the pile of tickets that Rey and Jyn keep adding to when they come through the door. With the tickets comes a steady stream of commentary: 

“Purple shirt regular is back. Wants the usual.” 

“Ugh, that lady is back with her kids _again_. If they tip all their food on the ground _one more time_ –” 

“Ten bowls of chips. No seriously, that’s what they want, I checked.” 

“Hey Bodhi, the _twins_ are here again,” Jyn says as she comes in, a sly grin on her face. Bodhi perks up almost immediately, wiping his hands on his apron as he heads over to peer out the door’s window. 

“Really? Where?” 

“Over by the window, the usual spot.” She bumps Bodhi with her shoulder. “You should go and talk to him!” 

“Less gossip, more cooking,” Baze says, shooing her out. She complies, still grinning wickedly over her shoulder. Bodhi shuffles back to his station, small spots of colour high on his cheeks but failing to keep the small grin off his face. Baze lets him have the ticket. 

A few minutes later, Jyn is back through the door. “Huh, we have a newbie. Blind guy just came in.” 

Bodhi blinks. “How do you know he’s blind?” 

She rolls her eyes, leaning against the counter. “The eyes kind of gave it away.” 

“Does he have a service dog?” Baze asks, both curious and immensely glad at the same time that both Krennic and the health inspector are long gone. Jyn shakes her head. 

“Nah, he has a stick though.” She holds the ticket up questioningly; Baze holds out his hand. He swaps her the piece of paper for the dish he has just finished garnishing. 

“Table four,” he instructs, checking the order as he turns back to his counter. It takes a moment to work his way through Jyn’s scrawl, but once he deciphers it he sighs. _I hate making this one._ _It’s a waste of good food._

Still, he makes the dish, and the next one, and the next one, sending them out until finally the orders stop building up faster than he and Bodhi can cook them. He sends an exhausted looking Bodhi off on his break with reassurances that Baze will be able to handle the orders for now, resolutely ignoring the tiredness beginning to seep back into his limbs. He’ll go for his break when Bodhi gets back. 

Jyn sticks her head through the door. “Baze?” 

She sounds hesitant, immediately making him wary. “What?” 

“The blind guy from before says he wants to talk to the chef.” He blinks at her in confusion for a few moments. 

“…Why?” No-one has ever wanted to talk to the chef. Baze is perfectly fine with this; he doesn’t really want to talk to them either. “Was something wrong with his meal?” 

She shrugs. “He didn’t make any complaints to me, and he ate all the food. Just said he wanted to talk to you.” 

Baze eyes the door and then the orders that still remain. “No, I’m too busy,” he decides, glad Bodhi is on break for the excuse. He doesn’t particularly feel like going out and receiving complaints about the cooking he is forced to do. Worse still, he definitely doesn’t want to receive _compliments_. “Tell him sorry, but no.” 

Jyn shrugs again. “Sure.” 

He sighs once she is gone, and starts on the next order. 

“He says he’s willing to wait.” 

Baze groans, leaning his forehead against the overhead cupboards for a moment. The headache from earlier is starting to make itself known again. He glares over his shoulder at Jyn. “Fine. If he wants to wait, then he can wait.” 

Jyn looks like she wants to argue, but Baze waves her back through the door. She makes a face at him and disappears back through the doors, presumably to let this customer know that Baze will be out. Eventually. It’s not like he can just leave the kitchen unattended anyway. Picking up the knife again, he shakes his head at the thought of anyone wanting to speak to him and tries to put it out of his mind with the steady _snk-snk_ of slicing vegetables. 

He loses himself in preparing the few dishes ordered in the tail end of the lunch hours. When Bodhi pops his head back in, a full ten minutes before his break should have ended, Baze narrows his eyes at him. “What are you doing back.” 

Bodhi edges in through the door and shrugs nervously. “Jyn texted and said you were waiting on me to get back so you could talk to someone…?” 

Baze remembers belatedly that he’s still holding a knife and sets it aside. “She meddles too much,” he mutters, annoyed. Bodhi looks relieved at the implication Baze isn’t about to murder him and heads to the sink to wash his hands and put his apron on again. 

“I don’t mind,” his co-worker insists. “Besides, I’m kind of curious now. About you actually talking to someone else other than us.” 

Baze glares at him again, this time to little effect. He wipes his hands and glances down at his apron. It’s covered in splotches of sauce and flour; should he take it off? Then again, maybe he shouldn’t; it’s proof that he actually is a chef. 

“Stop fidgeting and just go talk to the guy,” Bodhi advises, amusement lacing his words. “Maybe lose the hair net, though.” 

With another growl about meddling children, Baze removes the hair net and shoulders through the door to the front of the restaurant before any other unnecessary comments come his way. He resists the urge to run a hand over his braid to make sure it’s still intact. 

Once outside the kitchen though, he flounders, unsure what to do. His entrance attracts the attention of a few diners but luckily also Jyn, who hurries over once she spots him. “Over at table two,” she whispers, pointing out one of the smaller tables by the window. She pats him on the shoulder. “Good luck!” 

_I don’t need luck,_ he thinks with a grimace, turning his attention away from her retreating back to the table by the window. _I need social skills._ A lone man sits there, his head turned to stare out the window. He’s actually waited. Baze sucks in a deep breath to fortify himself and then makes his way over to the table. He’s aware of every single other patron turning to stare at him – all except the man who supposedly wants to talk to him. It’s not until he catches sight of the white-and-red stick leaning against the wall that he remembers what Jyn had said. 

Baze stops next to the man’s table and awkwardly clears his throat. The man cocks his ear towards the sound, brow furrowing for a moment. “My waitress tells me you wanted to talk to me?” 

Expression clearing, the other man looks up, gaze falling short of meeting Baze’s eyes. “Ah, you must be the chef then! I’m Chirrut Îmwe.” He gets to his feet and holds out his hand, smiling. “Pleased to meet you.” 

Baze takes his hand automatically. “Uh, yeah, that’s me. Baze Malbus.” The words are hard to force out; his tongue feels tied in knots. It’s not the shock of sightless eyes that shift higher at the sound of his voice, the milky blue a striking contrast to golden skin. The other man is beautiful, _vibrant_ in a way that has nothing to do with his looks – though he certainly cuts a fine figure in his black jeans and jacket, the scarlet shirt beneath on display. “Pleased to meet you too,” he adds belatedly. 

Chirrut’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. “Baze Malbus,” the other man repeats, as though tasting the words. His smile grows wider, gums showing, and Baze can’t tear his gaze away from the brightness of it. “Good to know.” His grip is firm, though his slender fingers are almost dwarfed by Baze’s paw of a hand. He’s shorter than Baze as well; his close-cropped black hair barely levels with Baze’s nose. 

Embarrassed to be staring, even if Chirrut is blind and probably can’t tell anyway, Baze looks away. He realises Chirrut’s hand is still in his and drops it hastily. So hastily that Chirrut’s hand is left hanging in midair for a few moments afterward, before the man slowly lets it drop. Baze folds his arms awkwardly across his chest, the tips of his ears turning red. “Sorry for the wait,” he says, voice rumbling in his chest as he tries to speak quietly, aware that every single patron is trying to listen in. He spots Jyn drifting closer and shoots a glare her way; she holds up her hands in surrender and backs away. Satisfied that his scowl’s effectiveness isn’t completely gone, he returns his gaze to Chirrut. “Can’t leave the kitchen unattended, you see.” 

“Can’t say that I do,” Chirrut replies cheerfully. Baze restrains the urge to smack himself in the forehead. _Blind. Right. Way to go, Malbus._ This is why he prefers staying out in the kitchen all day. “Forgive me,” Chirrut chuckles at Baze’s awkward silence. “I couldn’t resist. Please, sit down and join me.” He waves towards the table. 

“No, I should really be getting back–” Baze gestures towards the kitchen in vague explanation before realising doing so is pointless. He tries for a better explanation. “I left one of the undercooks in charge of the kitchen by himself.” 

“Ah.” Chirrut pauses. “Is he prone to setting things on fire?” 

“What? No–” 

“Then it’s fine. It’s past lunchtime and there’s not a lot of people left in here, so I can’t imagine the kitchen needs both of you at the moment.” His smile dims when Baze continues to hesitate. “Please? Just for a few minutes. Besides,” he leans towards Baze, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “if you sit down, then people will stop staring at us.” 

Baze wants to point out that they’ll stop staring at _him_ if he just turns around and goes back to the kitchen right now, but the hopeful, expectant look on the other man’s face stops the words from leaving his mouth. He sighs instead. “Alright, fine. A few minutes.” 

Chirrut’s grin returns full-force, making his stomach flip uncomfortably. “Great!” 

He slides back onto his seat with an easy grace that Baze envies as he awkwardly takes a seat. The spindly chairs of Empire Eats are not made for men of his build. He breathes a quiet sigh of relief when the chair creaks, but doesn’t decide to dump him on his backside in front of the entire restaurant. Across from him, Chirrut checks a small teapot with his hand. “Still warm,” he comments, lifting it. “Do you want some?” He waits until Baze makes an _mm_ noise that could mean anything and pours him a cup anyway, nudging it in Baze’s direction. 

It occurs to Baze that it’s odd for Chirrut to have two cups, when he clearly came on his own to the restaurant. “Your waitress kindly brought me some tea when she told me I’d have to wait,” Chirrut tells him when Baze asks him. “She implied it might be a rather long wait. I thought it best to be prepared in case I managed to persuade you to stay.” 

Baze decides not to respond to that and sips his tea instead. The taste of citrus pulls a small noise of shock from him and he pulls the cup away to stare at the tea inside with a critical eye. Chirrut smiles. “It’s nice, isn’t it? You serve good tea here; most of the restaurants around here make it too watery or too strong.” He wrinkles his nose. “Or too bland. How can you have bland tea? Especially oolong tea. I can taste orange in this, though. I like it.” 

“Candied orange peel and ginger,” Baze agrees absently. He sets the cup down. “I’m sorry, we actually don’t serve this here. It’s my own blend, they shouldn’t have given you this.” 

Chirrut raises his eyebrows. “You mean you don’t serve this normally? That’s a shame. I’ll have to thank the waitress. What do you usually give people, then?” 

Baze snorts. “The same piss-poor tea as every other restaurant, I would imagine,” he replies drily. Bodhi was the only other person on staff who drank tea and he made a habit of raiding Baze’s stash after declaring the teabags in the kitchen a crime against good tea. “Tea quality isn’t high on the manager’s list.” Nor was probably anything relating to actually running a restaurant. 

“But it is on yours.” Chirrut says this without a hint of a question, but Baze makes a noise of agreement anyway. Chirrut looks thoughtful, thumb running along the rim of his cup. “What’s in it?’ 

Baze lists off the ingredients readily, ticking them off on his fingers as Chirrut nods. It’s gratifying, in a way, to have _this_ recognised, something he’d put together himself, rather than anything else he has to make in this job. He gives instructions too, for brewing it – Jyn is used to making his, but it can easily end up too strong – but it occurs to him that the other man probably doesn’t actually want to listen to all of this and he trails off, thankful that Chirrut can’t see the way his cheeks flush with embarrassment. 

Chirrut takes the sudden drop into silence easily, sipping his tea with a hum. “I’ll have to try it sometime. It’s a good recipe.” Baze makes a non-committal noise in reply; it’s clear the other man is just humouring him. It’s made even clearer when Chirrut leans forward, resting his chin on a hand. “I thought chefs guarded their secrets more carefully than that,” he says, his tone teasing. His smile hasn’t disappeared the entire time they’ve been talking. Right now, it curls into the corners of his mouth like a contented cat. 

“I think that’s magicians you’re thinking of,” Baze tells him. “I have other secrets to guard, but my tea blends are not one of them.” 

“Oh?” Chirrut straightens in interest, hand falling to the table. His ever-present smile widens, white teeth flashing against the gold of his skin. He leans across the table. “What kind of secrets, Baze Malbus?” 

Baze huffs a laugh at his audacity, shakes his head. “Why did you want to talk to me?” he asks instead, curious more than annoyed now. “Surely not to discuss tea.” 

Chirrut pauses, fingers tapping against the table. “I just wanted to meet the chef who made my meal such an unexpected surprise,” he says after a moment’s hesitation. The innocent tone of voice is a complete contrast to the care he takes in picking his words. Baze doesn’t believe a word of it. 

“You… liked it?” he asks with raised eyebrows, a clear note of disbelief in his tone. Either Chirrut is lying through his teeth, or the man clearly doesn’t have the good taste that Baze had credited him with for liking proper tea. It’s not that the food they serve here is terrible, despite what he says – Baze has _some_ professional pride, at least, and people do seem to enjoy it – but it could be so much _better_ , and that frustrates him. 

“Mm. It was certainly an experience,” Chirrut agrees, smiling. Baze’s eyebrows scrunch together in consternation – did he or did he not enjoy the food? – but decides not to press the point. He still has no desire to listen to complaints _or_ compliments. 

“That’s good,” he replies blandly. He glances back towards the kitchens and snorts when he sees Bodhi and Rey’s faces duck out of sight below the window. Jyn doesn’t even bother to hide at her place by the register; she gives him a thumbs up when their gazes meet. He scowls. She smirks. Baze wonders if he should put her on wash-up duty instead next time. 

“I should go,” he says, turning back to Chirrut. Disappointment flashes across the other’s face for the briefest of moments before it smooths out, so fast Baze almost wonders if he imagined it. It leaves him bewildered; it’s not as though he’s a thrilling conversationalist. If anything, Chirrut should be glad to escape and yet, Baze feels oddly guilty in a way that has him offering up an apologetic, “I really shouldn’t be leaving Bodhi to deal with everything for so long.” 

Chirrut sighs. “I guess I shouldn’t waylay you any longer, then. Thank you for indulging my desire to talk.” He holds a hand out to shake. Baze takes it. “It was good to meet you, Baze.” 

“And you,” Baze replies. Chirrut’s hand is warm in his own. Maybe it’s just the sunlight streaming in through the window, making Chirrut glow. 

Then Chirrut clasps his hand with both his own. “May the Force of others be with you,” he says by way of goodbyes. The unexpected words clang through Baze, an echo back from the past that shakes him enough that he can only stare at the other man for a few seconds. It’s the old form of the blessing, one that few people associated with the Temple still use. Baze himself hasn’t used it in well over a decade, maybe two, but the counter-phrase still rolls automatically to the front of his mind. 

“And with you,” he manages. Chirrut tilts his head to the side, considering, before he squeezes Baze’s hand and releases it. The smile on his face is gentle, soft and steady, and suddenly it’s too much to be around anymore. Baze stands up abruptly. “Uh – bye.” 

He pushes away from the table, intending to make a hasty retreat, but Chirrut’s voice freezes him in place before he can get more than a few steps away. “Baze Malbus!” 

Baze half-turns, expectant. “Hm?” 

This time, Chirrut’s smile is that first smile that made his heart lurch, bright and wide and gums showing. “I’ll be sure to come again. Thanks for the meal.” 

“You’re welcome,” Baze replies, and escapes to the kitchen before Chirrut can say anything else. 

.  
.  
.  


He glances back only once, in the safety behind the closed kitchen door. Chirrut still sits at the table, fingers at his lips, outlined by the golden sunshine. 

Perhaps the day wasn’t so bad, after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> and then Chirrut goes home and writes a review for his food blog that just kinda glosses over the food (except to say how terrible it is) and instead focuses on the truly important things, like how hot the chef is haha Baze is just kinda ????? when he reads it.
> 
> So... as I said at the top, this was originally meant to be a longer fic that I had planned, but had to shave it down massively because of time constraints (I plan big, write slow, not a good combo for this kind of thing orz) However, I still really want to write that longer fic because this was a really fun prompt, so please keep an eye out for it sometime in the future!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
